Thaumaturgy
by Thethuthinnang
Summary: One-shot. At least Episode 16 recommended. Rare pairing. Nothing overt, watch out for depressed fluff.


The apartment is in a quiet corner of the Rue St. Honore. It has a balcony overlooking a garden and the street, and in the loft you can open up the casement and let in the light glittering on the glass panes of the Louvre.

                The landlady is an older woman with dyed hair who keeps house for them in the day and an eye on comings and goings on the street in front of the building at night. Her name is Babette. Babette's fiancé was taken by Italian witch hunters back in '59, just hours before their wedding, back when the French officials hadn't yet perfected their enforcement of the ban on witch hunting. Babette isn't married, but she wears widow's weeds and won't accept rent or pay.

                Babette doesn't like Nagira Syunji.

                "_Monsieur_, he is bad news," she tells Robin stiffly in her warm, accented English, whenever they happen to be in the same general area. She doesn't care if Nagira is present or not. "Living in the same house as _une__ jeune fille_, not even a chaperone—_très__ indecent_."

                Nagira just smirks and makes as if it doesn't bother him, as if he couldn't care less what the touchy broad says, but he thinks Robin doesn't see the way his lips press tight, the way wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes.

                The space between them is suddenly that much easier for them to feel.

                There are three beds in the apartment. The queen is in the only bedroom, the two twins up in the loft. In a curious juxtaposition of how they lived in Japan, it's Nagira who sleeps in a smaller bed, in the loft.

                Every morning, Robin makes coffee. Hers is soft and creamy, a milky brown, his bitter and strong, black as sin. Nagira always comes down to the table just as she's setting out the plates, dressed and hair neatly combed. They eat at the small, ironwork table on the balcony, under the wood-shingled eaves, even when it rains. He reads a Japanese-French newspaper; she listens to incomprehensible French radio.

                It isn't until after the food is gone and table cleared and dishes washed that there's this awkward quiet to fill.

                He smells different. Not in a bad way, no—just…different. Maybe it's because Robin hasn't lived with a man before, and in such a small place, but it's making her dizzy, a very distinctive, very blue, very _male_ scent. She knows he doesn't wear cologne; she hasn't come across anything when she cleans the apartment. The soap in the shower isn't anything special. And all smells, whether good or bad, go away eventually, as you get used to them.

                —but not _this_ one. And it's driving Robin crazy.

                They don't get out much. Robin spends most of her time in bed, tired, so tired. The thought of going outside makes her sweat. Nagira hasn't pushed her on this, and she thinks he's trying to give her space, trying to let her adjust on her own. She's grateful for it—God Himself knew Amon would never have been so soft on her.

                Or maybe Nagira doesn't care.

                Robin isn't sure which hurts more—that Amon hasn't asked to speak with her or that Nagira might not care.

                She wonders—is that their father's surname? "Nagira?" Does that make Amon "Nagira Amon?" The Nagira brothers, Syunji and Amon.

                One Sunday, while Nagira—Syunji, not Amon—is out buying groceries, Robin ransacks the house searching for the source of the smell. She cleans everything thrice over, wiping and spraying and sweeping and polishing until she doesn't have anything left to clean with. Then the apartment smells like chemicals and artificial flowers, then, bright and sterile. Robin stands in the kitchen and realizes that the smell is gone.

                Nagira comes home, two bags on each arm, an irritated expression on his face. Some brat knocked into him on the stairs and made him spend twenty minutes picking everything back up.

                Robin stands there listening to him and the smell makes her cheeks redden and something low in her stomach tighten.

                That night, she has a nightmare, a bad one, and she wakes up trembling. Quick and quiet as a mouse, she slips out of her bed and out into the main of the apartment, up the stairs to the loft. She stands there by one of the beds awkwardly until the snoring stops and turns into a heavy sigh, lets her know that it'll all be okay, and then she crawls under the blanket and curls up against the large, long-limbed body and cries for the relief of it, for the knowing she's not alone, for knowing the monsters under the bed can't get at her as long as there's somebody else here with her. He smells wonderful, this man, with his mouth-drying, masculine scent.

                Nagira Syunji runs his hand up and down her back as if he were comforting a small child. Occasionally, very occasionally, he'll hum something under his breath, some lullaby—but she can't make out the words and she falls asleep there feeling safer than she's ever felt in her life, his heart beating strongly under her palm.

                She awakes up alone, in her own bed, his scent just a memory.

                Robin's not ready to go outside again.

_une__ jeune fille_

a young girl

_très__ indecent_

very indecent

A/N: I think I'm setting myself up for a longer story. Meanwhile, bad cold, work, and frustrating one-shots! I'm going to need more Tylenol.


End file.
